


My Gallant Lad

by SoDoLaFaMiDoRe



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate take on a character's origin story, Blood and Injury, Fae Magic, Gratuitous Irish Language, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoDoLaFaMiDoRe/pseuds/SoDoLaFaMiDoRe
Summary: I've had neither rest nor good fortune/Since my gallant lad went away
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 134





	My Gallant Lad

**Author's Note:**

> Alright enjoy! And thank you so very much to, (twitter links), [Erika](https://twitter.com/ErikaBee9) and [Table_Thighs](https://twitter.com/Table_Thighs) on twitter for their help with this fic! Y'all are great!!

After over a decade, Geralt realized something was wrong with Jaskier. Well, not wrong. The man was just as cheery, just as obnoxious, and just as youthful as ever. And that right there was the problem. Geralt didn’t spend the most time among other humans, but he did know they should age and die at some point. But as the years passed Jaskier showed no signs of aging. Nor even that he seemed to notice how his hair never greyed, his joints didn’t ache, or the passing of the seasons that would normally signal a birthday. It was frankly confusing, even for a witcher with vast knowledge of monsters and magic.

Sitting in the woods one night, much further east than the pair normally travelled, Geralt finally decided he should just ask Jaskier forthright. He was obviously not a monster, Geralt would have sensed that, either by his own wits or the medallion. But humans didn’t go  _ decades _ without a single sign of the passage of time. Even after their travels and adventures, Geralt was at a loss to explain it. So, he looked across the fire, and spoke as direct as ever. “Jaskier, why don’t you age?”

“Huh?” The bard distractedly mumbled as he continued plucking at a song on his lute, dinner long since finished. He hadn’t heard Geralt, trying to find the right rhyme that said exactly what he needed it to. He glanced up from his instrument, attention now on the witcher.

“You don’t age. You haven’t aged one single day since I've met you. Why is that?” Geralt noted Jaskier’s body language. His face was confused, but as he processed the words he shifted. Jaskier put his lute to the side and grew distinctly more uncomfortable.

“What do you mean why? I’m as human as anyone else, of course I age!”

“Bullshit.” Jaskier made a face at that, crossing his arms and glaring at the witcher. “Bullshit.” Geralt repeated. “I’ve known you over twenty years and you look exactly the same.” 

Jaskier’s frown deepened, but he refused to respond, which only made the tension between them thicker. His brows were knit, and shouldn’t that have left lines in his smooth skin after years of rough sleeping, arguments, drunken brawls and drunker nights with a variety of different people? After their years of travelling Geralt could easily tell when Jaskier was lying, which only made him more confused as he could smell no deceit. Jaskier seemed just as confused and taken aback as anyone confronted with knowledge they had no idea of. Had the bard simply not noticed, in all his years, that there was something unusual?

“You’ve never mentioned life before Oxenfurt. Why is that?” Geralt attempted a different angle of approach, especially because after these decades, he honestly didn’t know. Sure, details weren’t necessary, but surely he had parents and a place he was born. At first, taking in his gaudy dress, he had assumed  _ noble with different plants in life _ , but that hadn’t quite fit.

“I’m not answering that. It’s not like I know about your childhood either. You practically sprung up a Witcher.” He didn’t look Geralt in the eyes, instead his gaze darted around the camp for, what? Answers? A distraction? Geralt wasn’t a people person, but he could tell he was getting under the bard’s skin, poking an old wound.

“It’s a simple question.” Geralt retorted. He didn’t need the bard’s life story before he made a name for himself, but the anger coming off Jaskier seemed to be hiding something deeper. Not a past someone didn’t want to discuss, but a past they themselves did not want to spend a single moment thinking of.

“One I don’t want to answer.”

“Jaskier-” Geralt pushed a little further, but that crossed the line for the bard.

“Fuck this, I’m going to sleep.” It was hard to storm off in a huff when your bed was just across the firepit from your travelling partner; but Jaskier made a good show of it as he bundled down for the night, resolutely ignoring the witcher. Geralt glared, before realizing he was going to get nowhere this night. Bundling down for bed as well, he threw one last glance to Jaskier, who by the sound of his breathing, had fallen into sleep in record time.

When Geralt awoke, he could tell something was wrong, instinctually. It. was too warm, meaning it was much later in the day than he normally woke. His eyes felt glued shut, try as he might to open them. Wiping at them pulled away a familiar white substance, which had no business being tangled in his eyelashes. Cobwebs. 

His mouth was dry, and as he licked his chapped lips his senses were filled by the scent of lavender. It made his eyes water, the scent was overpowering and overbearing. Springing out of his bedroll, sword in hand, he looked around the camp to see what was amiss, if he was under attack. Roach just stamped her foot, and Geralt’s fogged brain finally realized what wasn’t right.

Jaskier wasn’t there, and Geralt had the feeling he wasn’t just walking a short distance to piss.

Sure, he’d stormed off before when they had arguments, but he was asleep the last Geralt knew. His blankets were askew, but he’d left everything he owned and traveled with there. He wouldn’t have done that if he was offended enough to actually leave. What truly told Geralt something was wrong was the lute, innocently on the ground where it had been placed the night before. Sniffing the air, all Geralt could smell was that damned lavender, and the cobwebs were beginning to paint a clear picture.

The Aen Seidhe.

But what they could want with a random sleeping bard? He was just Jaskier. Yes, he was famous for his songs and stories, but surely they hadn’t gone into the territory of the fae. And normally, fae stayed far from humans, unless the human was alone. If he could gather his wits, he knew he could sense the magic. There, beyond Jaskier’s bedroll, was a circle of mushrooms.

Geralt tried to get the scent of lavender out of his nose, but he wouldn’t have time for it to clear naturally. It was too much, deep in his sinuses. Clearing it was painful, uncomfortably tipping his water skin to flush himself. He took a deep breath of the forest air. Jaskier’s scent was faint, as he fully opened himself to the information he could take in; he could track the other side of the fairy ring.

With that, he packed camp, giving gentle care to Jaskier’s lute as he hung it from Roach and set off. The portal magic wasn’t strong, even with his more limited knowledge he was able to sense where it connected. Leylines. They used fucking  _ leylines _ , grounded in fungi. Even with this knowledge to follow, it took days of fruitless wandering. He spent his limited coin from the sparse hunting of the area until he was able to pick up the bard’s scent.

Tracking it from there was to Geralt as tracking any other quarry. Especially as Jaskier had grown so familiar to him over their years together, imprinted in his senses. He wasn’t sure how many Aen Seidhe there were, or what they wanted with Jaskier, but his instinct told him to be stealthy and avoid a bloody brawl.

Roach made plenty of noise, being a horse, so he knew it was time to go on foot, not weighed down. Taking only his iron sword, he loosely hitched Roach to a tree and set off to follow the scent. His fingers flexed, head filled with questions that all boiled down to- “Why Jaskier?” It was always Jaskier, getting in trouble with djinn or dragons, always giving Geralt more problems than he could handle. Yet, after an apology the next time they bumped into each other, Geralt realized he had missed the other. And now, for his first mortal peril since they had begun travelling again, it hit Geralt. He couldn’t bear to lose him.

Giving thought to the idea in his head made him all the more aware of how it was distracting him physically. His heart didn’t sit right in his chest, the rhythm was off. His senses were abuzz with an adrenaline he normally only received from the headiest of potions, and the thought he might not be able to get to Jaskier left a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.

As he stalked, trying to ignore the swirling questions in his head and the ache in his chest, he knew he was nearing his target. The familiar sounds of a lute reached his ears, as comforting as a campfire and as wrong as a blood-red moon. It was easy to track, even with his need to be cautious this deep in such unfamiliar territory. The sounds of a brook helped cover his footsteps as he approached, the dense woods giving way to an unnaturally bright clearing. He shielded his eyes, allowing them to adjust as the lute washed over him, the way a river caressed when one sunk into the current.

Getting a good view of the clearing gave Geralt pause from his plan to snatch the bard. Jaskier was sitting on a rock, surrounded by an enraptured audience of fae as he played a song in what was clearly Elder. Geralt wasn’t even sure how Jaskier was fluent in Elder, probably from Oxenfurt. But here he was, composing music and singing as if he was born an Aen Seidhe. Geralt knew he had to lay in wait. Even with his superior skills, he would easily be outmatched by the sheer number of fae on their own territory, and Jaskier wasn’t in clear enough danger to warrant needless bloodshed.

After hours of crouching, his legs were sore. The fae slowly began to disperse from Jaskier, growing tired of even his sweet music; as a child does with a played-out toy. Jaskier, even with no audience, kept singing. He seemed compelled to, not stopping for food or drink as his fingers strummed the lute. Now without the hundred other smells in the air overwhelming his senses, Geralt could smell blood. Fresh and flowing freely. Taking a risk, he walked towards Jaskier, low like a predator towards prey. No fae were left to notice him.

He took in the bard’s form. Deep blue lines wound over his skin like ivy to a brick. They crawled around his throat, curled across his face, and crept into his hairline. Fae magic, to keep one of their  _ guests  _ docile.

Jaskier did not even look in his direction, having changed to a new song without his adoring audience. This one was softer, more melancholy as he began in Elder. Geralt had no context of the words spoken, but he paused as Jaskier sang:

'Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear

'Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear

Suan gan séan ní bhfuair mé féin

Ó chuaigh i gcéin mo ghile mear

He could smell tears, and soon there were two twin tracks of saltwater running down Jaskier’s face. Yet he still did not acknowledge the Witcher’s presence as he continued:

Ó chuaigh i gcéin mo ghile mear

Geralt looked to the lute, noting the blood came from his raw fingers. He had clearly been playing since he arrived here, yet his voice was still clear, no sound of strain. Only his fingers, calluses long worn away, showed the damage. Even with a good healer the wounds on his hands would take weeks to heal. Geralt noticed all this, yet Jaskier did not notice him as he crooned, a wounded dove.

“Jaskier,” he began gruffly, trying to get the bard’s attention. Still no response, the man deep in his trance. “Jaskier.” He stated, firmer. The song continued, and Geralt knew the longer he was here the higher risk he ran of being caught. When it was clear his few words would not reach the bard, he reached roughly for the lute. It made a horrid noise before falling to silence as it was ripped from Jaskier’s hands and tossed aside. 

The bard paused for a moment, still staring into space, before putting his hands demurely in his lap. It was completely unnerving, compared to the normal Jaskier. If someone had dared grab his instrument he would normally throw a fit. Many times, he threw punches until Geralt stepped in. Now, he sat like a doll waiting to be manipulated. A toy, for others to pose and primp. Nothing like the man Geralt knew.

The tears still flowed, with no other sound from the bard. Not a sob, not a whimper. Geralt wasn’t even fully sure he was breathing as he looked around in case of an ambush. Spotting no-one, he turned to Jaskier and grabbed him around the waist, bodily throwing him over his shoulder as one would a fresh carcass.

It was quick work to get away, bringing Jaskier back to Roach. Removing him from his shoulder, Jaskier just stood, staring into space. Geralt had the feeling he wouldn’t walk besides Roach as he normally did on their travels. Hopping on the horse, he picked Jaskier up and sat him in front of him on the saddle, having to keep one arm around his waist so the catatonic man wouldn’t slip off.

They were a sight to see when they finally made their way back to the small town Geralt had last stopped in. The whole ride Gealt’s mind was moving, trying to think how he could break this trance on Jaskier. The inn was thankfully quiet this late in the night, and Geralt took Jaskier up to his room that cost the last of his coin. He sat him on the bed, gentle as he could. Jaskier just continued to stare blankly ahead, not even tracking Geralt with his eyes as he moved about the room.

He would need to find a healer to fully help Jaskier’s hands, but he could bandage them for tonight until he could call upon one. Pulling Jaskier’s right hand from his lap revealed the most of the damage. Some strips of skin were hanging where blisters had popped, along with raw bleeding holes where he had cut quite deeply on his fingertips. It made it look as if he had never spent years honing his craft, the skin so torn asunder.

By the time he was done bandaging nothing had changed. Jaskier still stared blankly ahead, his face a stone mask even with the sting of the ointment. Gearlt sighed, realizing how much work lay ahead of him to help the other.

Oh but Geralt underestimated the work it would take. Jaskier didn’t move from however he was positioned, and as the days passed Geralt grew more worried. The local healer had no fucking clue, a wizard three towns over shrugged, and he was left with no answers. It was starting to try his nerves, to see someone who was such a source of life so still. After nearly three weeks, Geralt’s nerves were shot. Jaskier didn’t make a whimper, a moan, a sob, and after his tears from his song in the clearing dried his face didn’t change, not even to blink. 

Geralt was at his wits end, trying to get Jaskier to rejoin the land of living. Nothing seemed to reach the other, not shouts, not threats, not curses or any other coercion. Finally, as he reached the wee hours of the morning with no answer, he snapped. Normally, he would lash out with his fists or his words, sharp barbs that Jaskier would counter with his own sharp wit and tongue. But that would do nothing with the bard completely gone from the world, mind somewhere Geralt couldn’t reach.

Geralt was at a loss, but something inside him told him what he needed to do. He kneeled in front of where Jaskier sat, gathering both the bard’s nimble hands in his own. “Jaskier I… I’m sorry. I know you didn’t mean to hide this from me. You didn’t know yourself. And I…I-” His words failed him. He wasn’t sure how to express the roiling emotions inside him, no matter how they bubbled to the surface in his chest. He and Jaskier had their disagreements, their rows, the fist fights and curses and oh the hell Jaskier would drag him into. But honestly, compared to being a docile doll Geralt missed the storm he brought into his life. Yes, he was a pain in the ass, but Jaskier truly meant every word he said and did not take Geralt or anyone else’s shit. He didn’t cow from Geralt for being a witcher, not since the day they met. To see him like this, it wasn’t natural. Geralt didn’t realize what he missed until it was missing from his life, but he and Jaskier had molded around one another. Two colors of clay, unable to be fully separated once mixed.

Geralt looked down at the bandaged palms, still traced with lines of royal blue, and placed a gentle, ever so gentle kiss on the ensconced hands.

As he pulled his lips back he noticed the blue lines began to fade away. Looking into Jaskier’s eyes, he held his breath. It released as familiarity returned to the keen gaze he had grown so fond of. “Geralt,” Jaskier breathed out, and slumped down off the bed into the Witcher’s steadying grasp, the word holding more weight than a curse, more relief than a blessing.

“I know now. I know.” He sat Jaskier, still unsteady from the effects of the magic, back upright on the bed. Then, Jaskier began to talk. It took until daybreak, but Jaskier explained how he had been taken by the Aen Seidhe for his musical talents shortly after his eighteenth birthday. He spent an unknown amount of time among them, drinking things even now he could not put a name to that affected him. It had been pleasant, but even now his memory was more spotted than a moth-eaten cloak.

After a time, the fae grew tired of even him, and he was released in Oxenfurt with a lute on his back, knowledge of his name, and with that he was left to make his way in the world. Even being fae-touched, blessed with boundless musical talent, he had started from nothing. Now, with all that had happened, the magic broken; he could remember both of his times with the Aen Seidhe, and his life before being taken. He lost decades, and hadn’t even known the years were stolen. By the end, there were silent tears rolling down his face, but he knew answers to a question he had long since stopped asking.

Looking Geralt in the eyes, Jaskier seemed to be at war with himself. Bravery won out, and learning close, he kissed the witcher. For his hundreds of first kisses, it was Jaskier’s favorite.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked the fic, please leave a comment down below! They are greatly appreciated! The song used is Mo Ghile Mear, do give it a listen!


End file.
